Let It Bleed
by primadooom
Summary: He got himself into this mess. He now has to find a way out. *First chapter is short, I will write more if people like it. Rated for future chapters. Might end up being Sherlock/OC. Rated for drugs use, self-harm, and general dark themes. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first time writing any type of fanfiction, let alone a Sherlock one. Please be nice, don't hate on me too much. D:  
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Disclaimer: All characters etc. belong to the BBC, not me.

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><p>700mg of heroin injected into the radial artery via a hypodermic needle, causing the vein to collapse and the heart to slowly stop. The nerve systems will then break down and stop working. Conclusion: a lethal dosage, capable of killing a man whose body has suffered from excessive drug use.<p>

Sherlock Holmes stood on the balcony of his flat - if you could even call it _his_ flat. He slowly ran his hand up his left arm, his fingers running over the scars on his wrist from the blade and the scars on his forearm from the needles. His body had scars all over it, but his arms held the scars with the memories. The memories of pain and suffering. Of being alone and cold, with not a single person to look him in the eyes and tell him that everything was going to be okay.

He shook his head slightly, trying to rid his mind of the memories, the memories that he couldn't live with anymore. Sherlock Holmes, dying of an overdose. How very predictable and, to be honest, boring. But he didn't care anymore. His only wish now was to get away from it all, for good. And the needle in his pocket was all the needed to fulfil that wish.

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><p><strong>It's short, I know. Please R&amp;R, and I'll write more.. if people like it, that is.<br>Much love. x **


	2. Chapter 2

There was a slight breeze in the air, a peculiar thing considering that it was mid-July. Sherlock started to shiver as he hastily took of his jacket and threw it on the floor. It was a surprisingly clear night – a few stars had managed to shine through the artificial light of the street lamps. It was rather beautiful, but Sherlock had no time to admire things. He had to get this over and done with.

His hand plunged into his pocket and wrapped around the needle. Eyes closed, he sighed slightly, a small smile on his face. Finally, a way out of this. A way to escape it all, to escape the darkness that he faced. Complete and utter bliss.

The darkness... That's what Sherlock referred to it as inside his head. Everything that has built up to this moment – the darkness...

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><p>A small boy with a mop of black hair, barely older than a toddler, hiding under his bed, from the monster. But not the usual monster from fairy tales, the kind that are fictional - a true monster, one that could cause destruction and pain, because he was real.<p>

Suddenly a piercing scream filled the boy's ears, and he let out a small whimper. He covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the screaming, because he knew precisely the source of it. The screaming continued for what seemed like an eternity. Then silence. Just... silence.

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><p>The pulsing lights seemed overwhelming, everything was bright and colourful and wonderful. So wonderful. It was like everything had come to life, like there was now more interest to such a dull world. He used it to escape the boring, mundane life that he lived. It was as if he was in another world, one where boredom didn't exist.<p>

Apart from the times when the colours didn't want to show. The times where he took a bad trip, and there were no pretty colours, no pulsing light show.

All he could see was darkness when this happened. Complete darkness, devouring everything, leaving him with nothing but the memories. The memories of hat night. The screaming... then finding her. A tiny boy, finding his mother dead, her blood literally splattered up the walls.

The drugs – LSD, specifically - took the haunting picture of his dead mother away from him – most of the time.

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><p><em>Drip, drip, drip... <em>  
>Blood, so much blood, it started to flow past his hand and drip slowly to the floor. He began to worry whether the cuts where deep enough, whether he had severed the vein, whether it was enough to cause his death. He brought his hand up to his face, examined the self-inflicted wounds more closely. It should be enough, he thought. Deep enough to take my life, deep enough for it to end. He had to admit, it was a painful and, frankly, messy way to go. But isn't that what he wanted? He wanted to remembered, and what better way than this? Sherlock Holmes, the teenage boy who took his own life. He wanted people to know that it hurt, and that it was bloody.<p>

However, if he failed, he would have the scars. The scars that would be forever embedded into his skin, forever there. There to remind him of the time where he drew the blade across the pearly skin of his arm and wrist, and how he was almost fascinated by the way the blood flowed out of the fresh wound. The contrast of the blood on his white skin was almost beautiful, in a morbid kind of way.

But the scars... constant reminders of the pain, of how much it hurt, and - most importantly - reminders of how he failed.

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><p>Sherlock opened his eyes, his mind slowly returning to the current moment in time – the balcony, the needle, the one small movement to take his life. He sighed, wondering how it all came to this, a man so clever, reduced to this. Again... A waste of intelligence, almost. But he had not time to wallow in thoughts of what could have been if things happened differently. He had to act now, and fast, before his oh-so brilliant mind convinced him that this was the wrong thing to do, when it was right, so right.<p>

Taking one last look at the dark sky dotted with balls of fire, Sherlock raised the needle, watching as the silver flashed almost angrily in the dim light. Without a moment hesitation, Sherlock tore his gaze away from his idea of an escape, a key to freedom, and plunged the syringe deep into the pale skin of his forearm.

Disclaimer: All characters etc. belong to the BBC, not me.

**Wow, I was meant to add a new chapter the day after I wrote the first one, and instead I added added chapter 2 like three months later. I fail.  
>I'm not too proud of this, it isn't the best I've written, so please R&amp;R and tell me what you think! :3<br>****Also, thanks to my good friend** **insaneradio for helping me write the ending to this chapter.**

**Much love. x**


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